


the lovers

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, a mixture of moments that aren't connected, just a bunch of moments that could have happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 08:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: "If you care in Kirkwall, then Kirkwall will find a way to take it from you. Still, she loves and she loves and she loves."a deconstruction of the moments after sex with the romances in dragon age 2 involving a mix of thoughts and feelings that might indicate something more or something less. this isn't detailed or really nsfw, but allusions are still made to the act.





	1. a lover

**Author's Note:**

> essentially, this is a series deconstructing the moments after sex with the romances in dragon age 2. it’s not anything coherent by any means, but it’s meant to be more of a mix of thoughts and feelings.they’re all short and simple pieces. it’s not nsfw, but allusions are still made. the hawke in question is simply a fem!hawke with nothing in particular to define her. the order in which you read these does not matter except for the first chapter which is meant to be an introduction of sorts.
> 
> edit: added a few sentences in each story to include something more from the li's thoughts (jan 7, 2018)

Skin touches skin, and heart touches heart.  
Voice cries out, voice answers in return.  
Tales are told beneath sheets, after ardor cools  
And all too often, tales are lost  
Once the bed is left and bodies settle back  
Into ordinary, everyday life.

_ — a physical insight into what occurs in the dark after eros _

 

* * *

 

 

_ A lover, _ Hawke thinks.  _ A lover. _

She is not the traditional kind of lover, she thinks to herself.

She is scarred, wounded, torn, ravaged, tossed about, and yet, here she is, with her heart fluttering as if she was a young girl from Lothering in the summer fields holding someone else’s hand again. Love is not easy, but she found it anyways in this towering city carved into the stone. Hawke holds their hand, but it is not a summer field. 

Instead, it is in a room with the candles blown out since affection and love are not as easy to admit when desire and libido are far more easier to blame. Instead, it is in the shadowy depths of Darktown, hands clutched tight after a brush with death far too close for the liking. 

Instead, it is behind their backs where no one can see because if you care in Kirkwall, Kirkwall will find a way to take it from you.

Still, she loves and she loves and she loves. She tries to show it with her actions, her words, her hand brushed across their shoulder to reassure them that  _ yes, we are alive, yes, we shall survive another day, yes, i love you.  _ Who knows when their lives will end? Whether it be tomorrow or in years far beyond into the future, she knows in her bones that she loves.

_ A lover, _ Hawke thinks.  _ A lover. _

__

 


	2. fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fenris’s story alludes to act 3 and the choices he made in terms of romance in act 2

The lyrium on his skin emanates a pale and soft silver glow in the shadows of her bedroom after they are done. Hawke didn’t know that they could until she ignited them with too many light and teasing touches along his skin and whispered words into his ear and caressed him with all the gentleness that she had tried to lock away for a year. Fenris never really wanted to tell her that. Danarius had also found out that fact long ago and used it as he saw fit. Some part of Fenris still cringes when he thinks of it, and so, he had tried to hide it away. However, it feels... More right when Hawke knows. They both know that they will not betray each other, and Fenris is comfortable with that.  
Sweat beads on their skin and quickly chills after their soft moment of inactivity, and they hold each other quietly, gently, as though their scars will split them apart.

Hawke stares at them, utterly entranced. Fenris chuckles, and she is so close to him that she can feel his body vibrate with the laugh. With a finger, he tilts her head up and says, “My eyes are here, Hawke.” Fenris doesn't remember when he ever felt this comfortable in someone else's bed, but it seems fitting that it be Hawke's bed. She flushes pink and takes solitude in the fact that he probably can’t see it in the dark. Oh, wait, he could probably tell by the heat of her cheeks and the limited light that his marks offer. He's also got elf eyes, and they gleam like glass in the lyrium light. She hums, trying to imitate that seductive tone that Isabela has perfected to an art, “Mmm, but I think I like what I see down here as well.” That manages to get a laugh out of Fenris, low and rough and rumbling.

Hawke feels surprisingly bare, and without her armor to shield her, she feels surprisingly vulnerable. She wants to cross her arms and hide herself, and the memory of him _leaving_ the last time makes her want to clutch her heart and shake. _He_ already holds her heart in his hands, and he physically could if he wanted.  Why should it bother her? She shouldn’t be bothered, but the past year of solitude and agonized thought of _what did I do wrong_ have flittered and fluttered around her mind too often than not for her to _not_ be bothered. But she wants this to work _so badly_ , and she lightly traces her fingers along the few markings on her face. Hawke wants to sob at the injustice of it all; to have such a perfect and flawed man to marked in this way by a man who considered him less than human is disgusting to think about. But the markings do not make him; he does, and he is a man in of his own right.

Fenris feels somewhat the same; his heart beats a flutter-quick rhythm that only follows him in battle. Emotions surge in his mind and make him do impulsive things like kiss Hawke in unconventional places or twine his fingers with his in public. Frankly, he fears being chained down by these new and sudden feelings. The magic that flickers in the Hawke bloodline also gives him undue caution and wariness, and he is simply... Unused to this. Fenris never liked  _not knowing_. It was -  _is_ \- too dangerous to not know. Better to know someone's weaknesses and their habits than to let them know your own. Rationally, he knows that he can defend himself if need be, and he knows that Hawke would never do it. This is all new to him. Half of him dislikes it; half of him  _revels_ in the freedom of it. And _all_ of him adores Hawke beyond what he could have ever believed.

She shuts her eyes and tilts her head just so that she can lean her forehead on his. He stills, but then, he leans in as well, putting just the right amount of pressure, and it’s a precious moment.

Neither speaks, but no words are needed to tell the other what they are feeling.

Hawke opens her eyes slowly, and her eyelashes brush against Fenris’s skin, and she says softly, “Fenris.” He pulls her in closer, skin against skin, until she is wrapped up in his arms. The lyrium brands feel both warm and cool against Hawke's skin, and she curls in closer. Fenris only sighs out, “Hawke.” Her lips curve upward as she accommodates him and embraces him in turn. “I am yours,” she breathes out. “I am yours,” he echoes.

The lyrium in his skin tingles at the touch of her own, and Fenris feels his own heartbeat calm down in a more steadier beat until it beats in time with Hawke's own.


	3. isabela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isabela’s story alludes to act 2 before the quest for the tome of koslun

She smells like salt and sea, gold and secrets, iron and blood, when Hawke kisses her. Strong arms pull her towards the bed, and Isabela regards her with the eyes of experience and her signature smirk playing about her lips. She knows that she is beautiful, and she knows it well. Hawke cannot stop gazing at her. Isabela feels and tastes like the sea, and somehow, Hawke knows that one day, she will leave with the receding tides towards the horizon that stretches across the Waking Sea. She doesn’t know when, and she doesn’t know why, but that is why she clutches on even tighter.

Lately, Isabela had seemed more… Tense.

Perhaps it was the increasing presence of the qunari, and Hawke can’t blame her. Their presence has become strained, and the viscount’s patience has grown taut and tight, like a rope holding onto cargo too heavy for its own good. Hawke has seen boxes like that at the docks, and she has also seen a rope snap under the weight. The box had fallen and smashed onto the cobblestones, only to reveal the broken bodies of smuggled slaves. Isabela and Hawke had come to the Hanged Man, much to the chagrin of their motley group of friends, stained in blood and fury blazing in their eyes. The slavers’ blood had watered the seas and docks, but it still hadn’t felt like enough to them.

Regardless, when they finally slump against each other, Isabela’s lips move against her skin, saying, “You’re quite good at this, you know.” Hawke snorts, “That’s quite a compliment coming from you.” Isabela tilts her head and leans over to peck Hawke’s lips. “I enjoy pleasure,” she says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with that. No need to feel ashamed about it, sweetheart.” Her eyes are strangely soft and vulnerable when she says that.

Hawke props herself up on her elbows and regards her. “No, there isn’t. I just love you.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them, and Isabela laughs, “Oh, now _that’s_ a compliment, sweetness.” Hawke leans against one elbow and softly says, “No really.” Isabela pauses and looks like she wants to say something more. Privately, Isabela thinks  _oh, there goes my heart._ She never deals in feelings of her own. No, never. It was far more reliable and far more profitable to deal in things like gold and ships and trade and piracy; it was more stable and tangible and predictable than anything so fallible as  _feelings_. Once, she would have curled her lip at it. Now, it makes her  _want_ for something like it, something  _more_ , but she knows that she will always be burned in some way for it. So, instead of saying anything more, she turns away to stare out the window at the blue skies beyond. It is a coward's move, and Isabela knows it. She just doesn't want to face it now. Not with the burden of a search on her shoulders.

It _has_ been a strangely clear day for Kirkwall, especially considering that it was usually grey and dull for most days during this sort of season.

Hawke stretches and works out any kinks left in her body, and Isabela hauls herself out of the bed and tosses her clothes. They wipe each other down with a damp washcloth carefully before they dress, and then, they dress themselves. It's a practiced routine that they established ever since Isabela first offered her bed and some physical comfort to Hawke. It was supposed to be a "friends with benefits" sort of deal. No feelings involved. Both Hawke and Isabela were completely fine with the terms then. Now, neither of them really know what to do with themselves after that accidental revelation. Hawke finishes before Isabela does, and quickly, she leans over to help Isabela. Isabela startles at the sudden touch, but then, she relaxes enough to let Hawke finish. They face each other, and Isabela pats Hawke’s shoulder. “Good round,” she states. Hawke brushes her hand against her shoulder, softly, gently, laden with the feelings that she dares not to say, and nods. Isabela gazes at her hand, and for a moment, Hawke fears that she knows. But then, Hawke can’t help but to laugh at herself. Of course, Isabela must know. She knows feelings and how to handle them, like a ship in a sea of emotions. And Isabela really does know. She only knows how to handle others though. Not her own.

They part ways, and Isabela leaves the rented room, like the low tides, like the water that always goes back to where it comes from. Hawke remains standing there in the clothes of the Amell house, ever wistful, and ever wondering at something _more._ That day, Hawke never realizes that Isabela might have wanted something more as well.


	4. anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anders’s story alludes to act 3 before he asks hawke to help him with his potion. some references to the short story about anders between awakenings and 2 are made.

Every motion, every action, that Anders does right now is threaded through with want and desperation, and Hawke responds equally, pressing touches here and there on his skin as if he is about to disappear. He can’t help but think that the small thought is more accurate than he would like to believe. Hawke sighs wantonly, and he swoops her up in his arms to deposit her on the bed. She looks ravishing against the rumpled sheets, and he wants to devour her. Justice rumbles at the back of his mind with disapproval, and he willfully ignores it, opting to embrace Hawke instead.

Later, once they lie still, Hawke murmurs, “We haven’t done this in a while.” No, they have not. Anders has been too preoccupied with the words that blaze and spark beneath his pen onto paper, and Justice has been consuming him, giving him strength and energy to keep him writing til late into the night. This has not gone unnoticed by Hawke. After all, they live in the same house. He simply says, “No, we haven’t.”

Hawke pushes herself up with her hands and gazes at him, love suffusing her bright eyes. Anders cannot ignore the dark circles and the lines on her brow that were not there before her role as Champion in this wretched city. “I do care, Anders. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this,” she says. There is no accusation in her voice, only concern, but Justice rears his head and snarls from the depths of their body.  
He thinks Hawke can tell, by the way her eyes sadden, but she brushes her hand down his cheek, down his neck. She smoothes her fingers against his scars. Her right index finger skates down the particularly nasty acid scar he got from an angry broodmother, and her left thumb sweeps across the stab wound from a hurlock commander. The life of a Grey Warden was brutal; it always managed to leave its marks on his skin no matter how many times he applied healing magic to it. Kirkwall was the same; it left its mark and its brand on you. Once you step in, there is never going back. Hawke is the same way too, and he brushes across the scar that the Arishok left behind. She is as marked by Kirkwall as he is marked. Anders sighs heavily, and Hawke glances up at him. "Should I stop?" she softly asks, and Anders shakes his head. Still, he trembles when she brushes against the one scar on his abdomen that he refuses to tell her about. It is the scar that used to be a gaping wound from a night when he was stained with the blood of men and the swirling spirit mists of the Fade. A scar from what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Hawke knows better to not ask, but she still does.

Anders wants to tell her. But he doesn’t want to see her, his precious love, recoil from him. Instead, he catches her hand and lays a kiss on top of it, twining his fingers with his. He kisses her fingers and up, up, up, he goes, softly kissing her on her neck, her cheeks, her nose, her brow, her lips. Her lips curve upwards in response, and she laughs, low and gentle, nothing like the boisterous laugh that she makes on Wicked Grace nights. Yet, her small laugh now is everything like it.

He loves her.

He loves her deeply, and Justice argues that this love will ruin him. Anders knows that he is already ruined, forever marked by this woman who seems more like a blazing fire ready to consume him whole. He is willing to offer himself to her, to love her for the rest of his limited days, as long as the taint stays at bay, but Justice pulls him back with an iron grip. _You cannot,_ he states firmly. _You and I, we have a mission to accomplish. You cannot. Quickly, before you lose your resolve, you must get her aid._ Anders snaps back mentally, _We can’t involve her! I won’t allow it._ Justice curls himself into his veins until he can feel the weight of both spirit and and Hawke lean against him. His arms absent-mindedly wrap themselves around Hawke and cradle her, but his blood sings with the Fade. _You must,_ Justice says. _There will be no compromise in this matter. You know this. This hurts you, but do what you must to shield her from this as much as you want to._

He shuts his eyes and tells himself, _Not tonight. Tomorrow._ Justice grumbles but steps aside to allow him this brief freedom with Hawke.

He will not lie to her tonight.


	5. merrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merrill’s story alludes to act 2 before the quest for the arulin’holm

“ _Emma lath,”_ Merrill breathes out as she clutches Hawke closer to her. Hawke holds her just as tight, and once they collapse into a tangle of limbs on Merrill’s bed, Merrill laughs, soft and trilling, and says, “Well, that was exciting.” Hawke nuzzles in closer and replies back simply, “It was.” The blood that pounded in Merrill’s ears cools, and the magic beneath her fingertips settle. Ever since she started using blood magic, she feels more sensitive to these kinds of things. They make her head spin. In a good way. Merrill really does think that should be more concerning, but as she snuggles in closer to Hawke, she thinks that it's a small concern. Nothing to worry about.   
Hawke’s fingers idly twitch and fiddle as she lays a gentle kiss on Merrill’s brow and along the vallaslin that curls along her cheeks. She shifts and turns, unable to lie completely still. Her lips are pressed thinly together, and she rubs the back of her neck now and then.

Merrill does not know why.

Hawke lies back down on Merrill’s rough sheets and asks, “So, what does your vallaslin mean?” Merrill blinks for a moment but then collects herself and replies quickly, “They stand for Dirthamen, the god of mysteries.” Hawke begins to trace them lightly with a finger, and to Merrill, it feels so _intimate,_ more caring and more loving than any peck on the lips or soft embrace has ever felt. She has not felt someone trace her vallaslin since the Keeper first emblazoned them on her face with excruciating care.  
“It suits you,” she says, and Merrill feels her heart cave with some relief. She automatically expected something much worse. The city did that to you, made you feel more defensive, and perhaps, that was the only way to stay safe in this heaving, seething morass of a city teeming with people and a veil that was too close to reality for comfort. Hawke twitches again and shaking her head, she nuzzles in closer to Merrill’s chest. Merrill’s heart thumps once, twice, and she tightens her embrace.

Hawke nods, and Merrill _knows_ that she is thinking about the arulin’holm again. She knows what she asked, and they have not yet gone to Sundermount yet. Still, she has faith in Hawke, but Hawke always gets that wrinkle in her brow when she _thinks_ about it.

The arulin’holm.

She knows that she will have to do some great favor to earn it, but she is willing to do it. Merrill thirsts after the secrets, the mysteries, that lie in the fogs of the past, and she just feels so _desperate_ when it comes to reclaiming parts of her long-forgotten heritage for _her people._ She remembers how bright the past seemed in her Keeper's stories, and she would do anything to restore even a fraction of the that brilliant light of their ancestors and heritage. She doesn’t expect Hawke to completely understand; she’s still part of the shemlen after all. And the shemlen have never been good for the elvhen. Still, her support has been surprising. Well… Merrill assumes that Hawke supports her. After all, Hawke hasn’t rejected her proposal to chase after the arulin’holm outright.  
She’s just _so_ close. She can almost taste the magic at the back of her throat, the sibilant call of the ancient magic that feels like old oak moss and falling leaves in autumn and the vibrant scent of elfroot buds in early dawn’s dew. She can almost feel the feeling of old songs tugging at her heartstrings and the ever-present thought of the world as it was before the Great Betrayal.

Hawke looks up at Merrill’s elven eyes, ever so reflective in the dark. It’s almost cat-like with the way they regard her. Her lips curve up into a wry smile, and she says, “Let’s not worry about that tonight.” She does not want to think about it, to debate it, to consider it anymore than she already has. Hawke turns towards Merrill and twines her arms around her, gazing at her face and the markings that twine across her skin. Merrill softens and then holds Hawke just as lovingly.

And so, Hawke falls asleep in the arms of her darling lover, all while trying to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of her neck where the dark eluvian looms.


	6. sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sebastian’s story alludes to act 3 and his final decision in “the last straw”

Hawke has her hands fisted in Sebastian’s hair and her body pressed against his on her bedroom door.

He moans, and she kisses harder, as if she can chase away the traces of his worry, of his guilt, that line his face as surely as the sun. His white armor scrapes and slides against her own, but she doesn’t care; after all, she’s the fucking Champion of Kirkwall. Hawke supposes that she should feel some guilt. The Chantry sisters would certainly be scandalized, and perhaps, she’ll be given a good smite by the Maker for daring to corrupt one of his own, but somehow, Hawke can’t bring herself to care.   
Sebastian doesn't care either; he pulls her closer, harder, and faster than he ever thought he would in his entire life. Sure, he's done this before. It has been too long of a time since he's last done this sort of thing, but it's like riding a horse; you never truly forget how to love physically. His motions are rusty, but he knows what he's doing. He knows all too well what he's doing. Some part of him wants to ignore that part of his mind though.

He’ll be a prince, after all, and soon, he’ll be out of her reach.

Tensions are higher than ever, and Hawke looks like she’s drowning in all of them. Pulled this way and that by the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, she just desperately wishes for some goddamn peace and quiet. Sebastian remembers long nights by the dying embers crackling in the fireplace in the empty Amell house. He remembers how tired she looked and just how dark the shadows underneath her eyes looked as well. He hates it too. It's maddening to see the city spiral down in a circle of madness especially since it drags down  _everyone_ with it. The poor, the rich, the mages, the templars, and whoever was left in the dregs of Kirkwall. Both Hawke and Sebastian smirk as they press their lips against each other. Varric would snort and laugh at them for even wishing for some "peace and quiet" in a city like Kirkwall.

Sebastian’s hands curl in her own hair to pull Hawke in closer, to crush his lips against hers as equally as she is doing now. Hawke is delighted and even more so once she realizes that she’s grinding against Sebastian’s Andraste belt buckle.  _Take that, Andraste_ , she thinks bitterly.  However, he soon tears himself away and looks at her. His lips are veritably bruised, and his hair is a mess, and his cheeks are flushed red with want. Hawke takes satisfaction in that it's all because of her and her alone. However, he pants out, “Not now, Hawke. Don't tempt me now. My vows are not yet completely up and will not be until I leave for Starkhaven.”   
His cheeks flush even redder as he realizes that they are only a wall and a door away from the statue of Andraste and the tall, flickering candles lining the walls and the wooden pews filled with people praying to the Maker. What must the Maker think of his vows? What must the Maker think of him? How can he honor and protect and keep his word to this brilliant and shining woman, to his precious lover, if he cannot keep his word to the god who came before her? His lips twist, and Hawke frowns at that. Sebastian shuts his eyes hard and tries so hard to control his breathing.  _One breath in, one breath out_. He is no longer the brother of the Chantry that he was, but he is still part of this Chantry for a few weeks longer. He will not dishonor their name nor Hawke's.

Hawke reluctantly lets him go, but she respects and cares for him enough to not abuse his vows. Sebastian _knows_ that she will abide by his choices even if she does try to tempt him every now and then. It is his choice and only his to make, and she will not force it upon him without explicit consent. However, that reminds them both that he’ll be a prince. She almost snorts; he’ll be a prince and she’ll be a champion, and they’ll both have to sit and look pretty at the top of society. Neither of them know how this relationship will quite pan out once he leaves. Sebastian tries to remain optimistic about it though; their high social standings may make it easier to secure an alliance between Kirkwall and Starkhaven. And an alliance accompanied by Hawke was always appealing to him.

Briefly, they wonder what would've happened if Sebastian had remained in Starkhaven to assume the throne almost immediately. What kind of prince would he have been without his duration at the Chantry? How would power affect him? The line between power and corruption was woefully thin and intertwined with feelings of moral duty as well as simple human greed. Maker knows how much they've seen of that: from the dirtiest ditches of Darktown to the highest glimmering domains of the Chantry, here in Kirkwall. With that thought, the mantle and the burden of the Champion and the Prince seem veritably heavier on their shoulders.

Hawke must have been frowning during her moment of contemplation because Sebastian smoothes her brow with his thumb and looks at her with those gentle, concerned blue eyes of his. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice low and hushed. She weakly smiles, a ghost of what her grin in the days before used to be like, “Just thinking too much.”

He cups her face with the same gentle touch and whispers, “Don’t worry, I’m with you no matter what.”

Hawke wants to believe that so _desperately._ Sebastian does not know how much his words and new vow will stretch over the next expanse of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real ironic, especially considering that my hawke allowed anders to go + come back later to fight lmao (also i think that this one is the spiciest wow)


End file.
